The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan grants you twelve hours in which to carry out its orders.
PRESIDENT OF THE COUNCIL
Nayland Smith’s expression had something wild in it as he turned to Gallaho.
“To whom was this sent?” he snapped
“Doctor Martin Jasper.”
Smith’s expression changed; his face became almost blank.
“Who the devil is Doctor Martin Jasper?”
“I have looked him up, sir. He has a row of degrees; he’s a research man and for some time was technical director of the great Caxton armament factory up in the north.”
“Armament factory? I begin to understand. Where does he live?”
“That’s the significant thing, sir. It may account for the presence of Doctor Fu Manchu where we found him—or rather, where we lost him. This Doctor Martin Jasper lives at a house called Great Oaks just on the Suffolk border, not ten miles, as the crow flies, from the Monks’ Arms.”
Great Oaks
It was a cross-country journey and the night was misty and moonless; but although unknown to us by name clearly enough Dr Martin Jasper was someone of importance in the eyes of the Si-Fan.
Smith attacked the matter with feverish energy.
A special train was chartered. The railway officials were given twenty-five minutes in which to clear the line. Arrangements were made for a car to meet us at our journey’s end. And at about that hour when after-theatre throngs are congesting the West End thoroughfares, we set out in the big Rolls, Fey at the wheel.
Nayland Smith’s special powers (which enabled him to ignore traffic regulations) and the wizard driving of Fey, resulted in a dash through London’s crowded streets which even I, who had known so many thrills, found exciting.
Smith uttered scarcely a word either to myself or to Gallaho, until arriving at the terminus he was assured by a flustered stationmaster that the special was ready to start. Once on board and whirling through that dark night, he turned to the inspector.
“Now, Gallaho, the full facts!”
“Well sir”—Gallaho steadied himself against the arm rest, for the solitary coach was rocking madly—”I have very little to add.” He pulled out his notebook. “This is what I jotted down during the telephone conversation.”
“The local police are not in charge then?” Smith snapped.
“No sir, and I took the step of requesting that they shouldn’t be notified.”
“Good.”
“It was a Mr. Bailey, the doctor’s private secretary, who called up the Yard.”
“When?”
“At ten-seventeen—so we’ve wasted no time! This was what he told me.” He consulted his notes. “The doctor, who is engaged upon experiments of great importance in his private laboratory, had alarmed his secretary by his behavior—that is in the last week or so. He seemed to be in deadly fear of something or someone, so Mr. Bailey told me. But whatever was bothering him he kept it to himself. It came to a head though last Wednesday. Something reduced Doctor Jasper to such a state of utter panic that he abandoned work in his laboratory and for hours walked up and down his study. Today he was even worse. In fact Mr. Bailey said he looked positively ill. But somewhere around noon as the result, it seems, of a long telephone conversation—”
“With whom?”
“Mr. Bailey didn’t know—but as a result, the doctor resumed work, although apparently on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He worked right on up till tonight, refusing to break off for dinner. His behavior so alarmed his secretary that Mr. Bailey took the liberty of searching the study to see if he could find any evidence pointing to the cause of it.”
“And he found…”
“The original of the message I showed you.”
“No other message?”
“No other.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing that he could in any way connect with the remarkable behavior of his employer. He went to the laboratory, which is separate from the house, but Doctor Jasper refused to unlock the door and said that on no account was he to be disturbed. Very wisely, Mr. Bailey called up Scotland Yard, and that’s about all I know.”
Onward we raced through the black night, at one point passing very near to the scene of my last meeting with Ardatha. Within me I fought desperately to solve the mystery of those enigmatic eyes. Even when she looked at me with scorn, mocked me, fought with me, they seemed to mirror a second Ardatha, submerged, all but hidden perhaps from herself—a frightened soul who appealed, appealed for help—protection.
The whistle shrieked wildly. We went through stations at nightmare speed. Once we roared past a sidetracked express. I had a fleeting glimpse of lighted windows, staring faces.
A useful-looking Daimler met us at the station where we were received with some ceremony by the stationmaster. But brushing all inquiries aside. Smith climbed into the car followed by myself and Gallaho, and we set out for Great Oaks. Once on the way Smith glanced at his watch.
“I take it you don’t know, Gallaho, at what time the original of this message was received?”
“No, Mr. Bailey couldn’t tell me.”
Then having followed a high and badly kept yew hedge for some distance, the car was turned in between twin stone pillars and began to mount a drive which ascended slightly through a grove of magnificent oaks. I saw the house ahead. A low-pitched, irregular building, the characteristics of Great Oaks were difficult to discern, but the place was evidently of considerable age.
“Hullo!” muttered Smith; “what’s this? Some new development?”
Light streamed out into the porch and I could see that the front door was open.
As our car swung around and was pulled up before the steps two men ran down. They evidently had been awaiting us.
Smith sprang out to meet them. Gallaho and I followed. One of the pair was plainly a butler; the other, a youngish, dark-haired man with a short military moustache, whom I assumed normally to be of healthy coloring but who looked pale in the reflected light, stepped forward and introduced himself.
“My name is Horace Bailey,” he said in an agitated voice. “Do you come from Scotland Yard?”
“We do,” said Gallaho. “I’m Detective Inspector Gallaho—this is Sir Denis Nay land Smith, and Mr. Kerrigan.”
“Thank God you’re here!” cried Bailey, and glanced aside at the butler, who nodded sympathetically.
Both faces, I saw as we all entered Great Oaks, were stamped by an expression of horrified amazement.
“I have a foreboding,” said Smith, glancing about the entrance hall in which we found ourselves, “that I come too late.”
Mr. Bailey slowly inclined his head and something like a groan came from the butler.
“Good God, Kerrigan! A second score to the enemy!”
He dropped down on a leather-covered couch set in a recess over which hung a trophy of antlers. For a moment his amazing vitality, his electrical energy seemed to have deserted him, and I saw a man totally overcome. As I stepped towards him he looked up haggardly.
“The facts, Mr. Bailey, if you please.” He spoke more slowly than I remembered ever to have heard him speak. “When did it happen? Where? How?”
“I discovered the tragedy not five minutes ago.” Bailey spoke and looked as a man distraught. “You must understand that Doctor Jasper has been locked in his laboratory since noon and at last I determined to face any rebuff in order to induce him to rest. I beg, gentlemen, that you will return there with me now! Hale, the chauffeur, and Bordon, the doctor’s mechanic, are trying to cut out the lock of the door!”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
The overstrung man, waving us to follow, already was leading the way along a passage communicating with the rear of the house.